 | Forest leaves |  |
THE DREAMING PENITENT.
Ah, placid is thy slumber,
And peace is on thy brow,
Poor ruin'd girl! I fancy
That thou art dreaming now.
Perchance thou art retracing by memory's vivid powers,
The sweet and holy pleasures of childhood's sinless hours.
And peace is on thy brow,
Poor ruin'd girl! I fancy
That thou art dreaming now.
Perchance thou art retracing by memory's vivid powers,
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Perchance thou now art roving
With sisters glad and fair,
To cull the richest blossoms
To bind thy sunny hair;
While blithe among the branches, the fluttering wild bird sings,
And butterflies are fanning the flowers, with spangled wings.
With sisters glad and fair,
To cull the richest blossoms
To bind thy sunny hair;
While blithe among the branches, the fluttering wild bird sings,
And butterflies are fanning the flowers, with spangled wings.
Or haply thou art seated
By thy fair mother's side,
Ah, wo to thee! poor wanderer,
That thine own mother died.
She would have watched her darling, with fond and ceaseless care,
And warn'd thee of the sorrow, and sav'd thee from the snare.
By thy fair mother's side,
Ah, wo to thee! poor wanderer,
That thine own mother died.
She would have watched her darling, with fond and ceaseless care,
And warn'd thee of the sorrow, and sav'd thee from the snare.
Perhaps thou now art listening
To fond sweet words of praise
Such as she used to lavish
Upon thine early days.
Such as a mother only can pour upon the ear,
And such as thou, poor mourner, art doom'd no more to hear.
To fond sweet words of praise
Such as she used to lavish
Upon thine early days.
Such as a mother only can pour upon the ear,
And such as thou, poor mourner, art doom'd no more to hear.
A smile illumes thy features,
A blush is on thy cheek;
What dear and pure delusions
Do these emotions speak?
Perchance the treacherous passion, which wrought thy fearful doom,
Now lives on fancy's scenery, in all its joy-bright bloom.
A blush is on thy cheek;
What dear and pure delusions
Do these emotions speak?
Perchance the treacherous passion, which wrought thy fearful doom,
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Perchance soft words are stealing
Thy trembling nerves along,
And thrilling through thy spirit
Like some false syren's song,
Which woos the list'ning sailor to some bright islet's shore,
Till in the treacherous whirlpool he sinks for evermore.
Thy trembling nerves along,
And thrilling through thy spirit
Like some false syren's song,
Which woos the list'ning sailor to some bright islet's shore,
Till in the treacherous whirlpool he sinks for evermore.
Oh, could'st thou sleep thy life out
In these fair dreams of love,
Of truth, and bliss unfading,
Like that which lives above!—
Ah, now thy breast is heaving, with deep and painful sighs,
And tears gush through the fringes, that close thy sleeping eyes.
In these fair dreams of love,
Of truth, and bliss unfading,
Like that which lives above!—
Ah, now thy breast is heaving, with deep and painful sighs,
And tears gush through the fringes, that close thy sleeping eyes.
The tears of guilt are bitter,
And Oh, they are in vain!
They cannot heal the spirit
Or cleanse the bosom's stain;
But penitence will lead thee, where living waters flow,
And trees of life eternal, with leaves of healing grow.
And Oh, they are in vain!
They cannot heal the spirit
Or cleanse the bosom's stain;
But penitence will lead thee, where living waters flow,
And trees of life eternal, with leaves of healing grow.
| Forest leaves | |